This is an almost-sonnet, true enough to the form until the final couplet where, having fallen in love with the image of a child sleeping amidst the brightly coloured Lego pieces, I allowed myself a touch of poetic licence and failed to make a perfect rhyme.
LEGO
An old man, grey and gargoyle-faced, stares down
from a cathedral armchair to the rug
where a grandson, his game played out, lies snug,
and sound asleep, his Lego spread around.
He marvels at how suddenly the child,
as though anaesthetised, laid down his head,
no bedtime tale required, the rug his bed.
Insomniac himself, he sits beguiled
by this small child below him on the floor,
so innocent beside his slippered feet,
and, tearful, feels that life is incomplete
without this wordless moment of rapport
with the small sleeping boy, his soft fair hair
haloed by Lego pieces on the floor.
For verse of a different kind, why not visit: https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/
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